Mom's in town. She's been the Peanut-sitter whilst I race around getting things done. She went with me for a follow-up with Nurse Excruciating for my wrist thing and showed off Peanut to unsuspecting patients in the waiting room while I went in to the appointment. After several questions and pokes, Nurse E concluded that the injections hadn't worked. Another case solved, Mr. Holmes! I took the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and probe the motivation behind the way she and Dr. Pain administer such injections. She declared that that particular injection is the most painful injection that they give, by far. Of this I had no doubt. I said, "Indeed it was. But considering the injection I received before this was a virtually pain-free experience, wouldn't it be better to do it a different way rather than inflicting unnecessary trauma to the area?" She slyly responded, "Everyone does things differently." And she attempted to change the subject. However, I didn't want to. I asked again, "Why cause such pain when it's obviously unnecessary? If there's a better and less painful way to approach it, then surely that would be preferrable?" She refused to look at me, instead flipping through my medical chart to look busy, and quickly changed the subject by saying, "Yes, well it didn't work this time and it probably won't work the next, so I would recommend surgery." Of course you would.
Now, I'm not one for conspiracy theories, despite my many attempts to convince The Husband that I believe every major conspiracy theory in existence, plus a few of my own making. But I honestly believe, given that a surgeon makes most of his money in surgeries and not cortisteroid injections, that Dr. Pain and his accomplice, Nurse Excruciating, didn't care so much about the effectiveness of their injections as they hoped to see me again under more painful circumstances anyway. My suspicions were solidified when I finally agreed with her and she ran (yes, ran) out of the room and called scheduling as quickly as possible to get me the very next available spot that Dr. Pain had. My medical insurance doesn't like his "surgical center" and prefers he "operate" on me at an actual "hospital," so that pushed my surgery appt. to the 20th. As a different nurse was debriefing me on the various requirements for this 10-minute procedure (wash entirely with anti-bacterial soap, do not use perfumes, hairspray, or deodorant, do not wear metal or other jewelry, do not think unpleasant thoughts for 48 hours beforehand, do not listen to classical music that morning, register as a Libertarian, etc.) it came out that I would be in the hospital for four hours. For a 10-minute procedure. Peanut will not take a bottle. So screw that.
My mother, ever the helpful advisor, wondered if I could possibly hunt down Dr. Combat to have him fix my wrists again. First off, if I'm going to stalk anyone here, it'll be Flopsy's mother, per our standing agreement. Personally, I consider stalking anybody in the U.S. Army, let alone someone with ready access to drugs and surgical tools, a foolhardy decision at best. I prefer to think of myself as higher up on the Darwinian intelligence scale of evolution than that. Tracking down Dr. Combat for this purpose could only end in tears, numerous restraining orders, and a possible murder-suicide. On top of that, I doubt the Army itself would appreciate my efforts, rewarding them, I'm certain, with a boot to the face (specifically mine), or time in a Federal prison--neither of which appeal to me. My wrists will simply have to go on in pain as long as Dr. Combat proves ineffective at being in two places at once. Damn you, Dr. Combat!!!
Did I mention my mother's in town? The only thing Peanut wants in this world is to be held 24 hours a day. His wildest dreams are coming true.